Archive of Our Own

The front door of the Wheeler house still creaked in that exact same pitch it had for the last decade and a half. It is a stubborn piece of normal in a town that had spent the last few years being torn apart at the seams.

Mike stood in the exitway, the hardwood cool beneath his vomit green socks. The house was quiet in a way it hadn't been since before the earthquakes, before the red smoke, before everything. It was a recovery-type of quietness. The kind where people finally stopped looking at the ceiling, expecting monsters to burst through. Instead, they started looking at calendars again to look forward to future dates, soccer games and new vinyl arrivals.

His mom sorted through laundry before she took Holly and Ted to visit her mother. The trio recovered in pieces. Peace came back to them in non-linear shambles. The kitchen still smelled faintly of the lemon floor cleaner she used when she wanted to pretend nothing bad had ever happened to Hawkins. They all cooked, cleaned and sorted through their stuff as if nothing had changed. As if a literal monster from another dimension didn't tear through the roofs and almost kill the whole Wheeler clan.

Mike Wheeler was stuck. He still stood at the place where it was impossible to move. He thought that El breaking up with him would finally give him the courage to move towards what, or who, he actually wanted. Alas, under the mask of a leader who led his party through every war, he was a coward when it came to loving and expressing.

Downstairs, the basement door was cracked, throwing a faint, warm triangle of light across the carpet. The party had just wrapped up the final session of the campaign. The maps were rolled up, the lead miniatures were tucked away in their old, decorated shoe boxes and the character sheets were stacked neatly on the old wooden table for Holly and her friends. It felt like a monumentally heavy milestone. This was the last game before the real world split them up for good, or at least until the next spring break, when they'd all pile back into Hawkins from their respective college dorms, clutching their dice bags like shields against adulthood.

Mike wiped his palms on his jeans, glancing at the wall clock. The party was starving and Lucas had already threatened to start eating the spare foam from the couch cushions if the food didn't get there soon. When the doorbell rang, everyone cheered. Mike reached out, grabbed the brass doorknob and yanked it open, expecting to see the pimply-faced kid from the local pizzeria holding three steaming cardboard boxes.

Instead, a body lurched forward inside.

Mike stumbled back a step, his reflexes instantly locking into a defensive crouch he’d learned from years of survival. The boy didn't attack; he was unstable himself. He stumbled over the threshold, his sneakers skidding on the rug, before catching his balance against the coat rack. He looked hardly eighteen, wearing a black leather jacket that looked a little too structured, a grey t-shirt underneath and dark trousers. He was breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling as if he had just sprinted three miles through the woods.

"Whoa, whoa, what the hell?" Mike snapped, his voice cracking slightly as his hand instinctively went to the doorframe, blocking the path further into the house. "Hey! Who are you? What are you doing coming inside my house?"

The boy didn't look dangerous or armed. In fact, he looked completely stunned. His eyes were wide, darting and wildly alert as he scanned the floral wallpaper of the Wheeler hallway, the framed family portraits and the beige telephone on the wall. A bizarre, breathless expression crossed his face, a mixture of profound relief and utter disbelief, like he was looking at something familiar yet so very different. His eyes darted back at Mike, his chest heaving and a slow, shaky smile broke across his lips.

"Papa..." the boy whispered.

Mike froze in annoyance. He stared at the kid, his eyebrows drawing together until they practically met in the middle. The sheer absurdity of the word knocked the wind out of him. He looked out past the porch, checking the driveway, half-expecting to see some freshman idiot hiding behind the bushes with a video camera.

"Okay, cut it out," Mike countered, his voice dropping into a hard, defensive annoyance. "Who put you up to this? Is this some stupid dare? Because it’s not funny. Get off my porch before I call the cops."

"It’s not a prank, Michael-Mike!" The boy corrected himself quickly, his voice cracking with an intensity that made Mike’s stomach do a strange, uncomfortable flip. The kid took a step closer, holding his hands up, palms open, showing he didn't have a weapon. "You're nineteen. You're wearing that stupid gray striped sweater your mom bought you from the Sears catalog that you swore you'd never wear, but you probably ran out of clean laundry today. I know this because you still do this. You bring out discarded old clothes from the wardrobe when you don't feel like doing laundry. You still keep your old Millennium Falcon model under your bed, even though the radar dish broke off decades ago when Aunt El tried to fly it... and-and you have a scar on the downside of your chin from when a bully named Troy threw you onto a stone on the ground when you were defending Da-Will in middle school!"

For a moment, his heart stopped. The irritation evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, prickling dread that crawled up the back of his neck. The next moment, Mike’s heart started hammering against his ribs, heavy and sudden. Unlike the previous sensation.

Nobody knew how much he hated this Sears sweater. Nobody knew about his specific laundry habits, or the fact that El had completely totaled his Millennium Falcon years ago after Dustin dared her to see if she could make it fly... and the fight with Troy? The embarrassing details of it and his falling was something only Lucas knew.

The doorway felt entirely too small. Mike stared at the boy, his fingers clenching into the fabric of his jeans as his mind raced to find a logical explanation that didn't exist.

What the hell was this kid talking about? Is this an undead part of Upside Down? Is Henry doing this? No, he died. Everyone saw him dying, right? What the fuck?

"How do you know that?" Mike whispered, his hand tightening on the doorknob until his knuckles turned white. "Who told you that?"

"You told me," the boy said, his voice dropping into a softer, steadier register that carried a terrifyingly familiar weight. "I'm your son. From the future. Uncle Dustin... he-he sent me here. He built a machine and..."

Mike didn't hear the part about Dustin. He didn't hear a single word about any goddamn machine.

Everything faded into background noise because the boy had just stepped fully beneath the yellow glow of the entryway chandelier. For the very first time, the shadows fell away from his face and Mike was really, truly looking at him. His features, his face and his awfully familiar gaze.

The kid was tall with a slightly lanky frame, the same sharp set to his shoulders, but his face was soft, structured with a gentle elegance that Mike recognized but couldn't point out. His hair was chestnut brown, falling into his eyes. His eyes. They weren't the dark, nearly black pools that Mike saw in his own mirror every morning. They were green. A vibrant, deep, emerald-green that Mike had spent the last several years of his life memorizing in secret, sketching into the margins of his mind during every quiet moment in the basement.

His eyes matched Will’s eyes.

The realization hit Mike like a physical blow to the chest, stealing the air right out of his lungs. His brain short-circuited.

If this boy is my son... if he has these eyes... Mike’s mind spun into a chaotic, terrifying spiral. Did I marry a girl with green eyes? Did I find someone else? Or did Will...? He couldn't even finish the thought. The mere implication of it made his blood run hot and cold all at once. Too many questions piled up inside his fragile heart.

"Hey," The boy said softly, noticing the way Mike had completely gone pale, his gaze locked onto the kid's face. "Papa, breathe."

Mike forgot how to breathe. Driven by a sudden, frantic panic to get this kid out of the open entryway, where anyone could walk by at any second, he lunged forward. His fingers wrapped tightly around the boy's wrist, his grip firm, urgent and trembling with a cold, electric shock.

He practically dragged the boy through the hallway, his large sneakers skidding against the linoleum while his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Reaching the end of the hall, he yanked the basement door open and shoved the kid down the wooden steps ahead of him. Mike followed right on his heels, shutting the door behind them with a sharp click that cut off the rest of the house, his mind completely blank except for the lingering, haunting image of those familiar green eyes looking back at him.

He wanted.. No, he needed for this to be a lie. Deep down, he wished this boy were just a prankster.

The basement steps creaked with a rapid, heavy rhythm as Mike hurried down. The room was exactly as he had left it five minutes ago. Lucas was slouched on the edge of the old plaid sofa, idly tossing a twenty-sided die into the palm of his hand. Dustin leaned back in the mismatched swivel chair, his sneakers propped on the edge of the wood table where the campaign maps lay unrolled. El sat quietly beside the blanket fort’s remnants, her fingers tracing the edge of a faded wooden box that held pencils, while Max was perched on the arm of the couch, her dark sunglasses pushed up into her red hair, her bright blue eyes instantly tracking the sudden movement from the stairs.

Then there was Will. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wood paneling, his knees drawn up to his chest in that quiet, careful way he always took up space. He was wearing an oversized butter-yellow flannel shirt that swallowed his frame, his hair falling slightly into his eyes as he looked up from a small sketch pad where the final characters for their Spring break game were sketched.

When Mike practically shoved the boy into the center of the room like a spectacle pushed in front of an audience. The collective hum of the basement died instantly. Lucas froze mid-toss, the die clattering onto the carpet. Dustin’s feet dropped from the table with a loud thud in confusion.

"Mike?" Lucas started, his brow furrowing as he looked the stranger up and down, taking in the structured leather and the sneakers that looked entirely too clean for a Hawkins native. "Who's this guy?"

Mike didn't answer. He couldn't do it; it was too much to process. He stood frozen at the base of the stairs, breathing hard through his nose, his dark eyes wide and panicked as he kept his arm extended like a rigid barrier between this stranger and the rest of his life.

The boy stood perfectly still in the center of the worn carpet, right beneath the slight, familiar buzz of the basement light fixture. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze drifting across the wood-paneled walls, filled with Will's familiar art. His eyes lingered on the old walkie-talkies stacked on the shelf, the dusty boxes of board games and finally, the frozen faces staring back at him.

Slowly, the tension left the boy's shoulders and a soft, incredibly warm expression broke over his face.

"Wow," the boy murmured, his voice carrying an unmistakable hitch of emotion. He looked straight at El first, taking in her oversized flannel and the quiet strength in her posture. "Aunt Jane. You look... you look the same as you do in future. Now you're just a bit on the preppy edge."

El blinked, her head tilting in that familiar, bird-like confusion. "Jane?" she repeated softly, her hand moving instinctively toward her chest. No one outside the party, or the people who knew about the Upside Down have any clue about who Jane is. The people of Hawkins were traumatized enough not to pay two cents to her missing poster that was a coy to deceive the military.

Why is this random stranger calling her by her legal name? How does he even know her? She is supposed to be dead to the world.

Dustin’s jaw dropped slightly, his swivel chair groaning as he leaned forward. "Wait, what did you just say?"

The boy shifted his gaze over to Dustin, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A smirk that looked terrifyingly like Mike’s own arrogant expression. "Uncle Dustin. Still wearing the thinking cap, huh? My God, you never changed either. Not even a bit."

He turned his head slightly towards the calendar on the wall marked with 'Lucas' game' next Tuesday. It's the same game that landed Lucas a spot on the regional team and from there, his career skyrocketed. He looked towards Lucas, his eyes softening. "Uncle Lucas. I know you're nervous about the scouts, but you will kill it. I have no doubt..."

Lucas looked like his house had just been raided and the intruders slapped him on the way out while shoving his own dirty socks in his mouth. He glanced at Mike, then back to the kid. "How do you know about it? Mike, what the hell is going on?"

"This... boy says he's my son... from the future," Mike said. Even saying it out loud made his heart skip a beat.

"Is this some kind of prank?" Lucas asked again. Everyone's faces were etched with deep confusion.

Max didn't wait for Mike to explain or retort. She swung her legs off the arm of the couch, her sneakers hitting the floor with a sharp snap. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the stranger’s face, tracing the slope of his nose and the peculiar, hauntingly familiar shape of his green eyes.

"Hey, freak show," Max barked, her voice sharp enough to cut through the confusion. "Tell the truth, who are you?"

The boy didn't seem intimidated by her edge at all. In fact, his smile grew wider with some kind of familiarity, a glint of absolute affection in his eyes.

"Aunt Maxine," he said softly, almost reverently. He looked down at her feet, which still had a slight limp in them, because she is still in her recovery phase, his eyes softening with an endearing edge. "You're still riding the Madrid tracker with the flypaper grip tape, right? You always told me you regretted swapping those out for the wider ones in the nineties. Perhaps don't do that?"

Max went entirely still. The specific modifications of her board, the exact brand names she kept fiercely guarded and a regret she hadn't even lived through yet. It was all woven into the heavy thud of this stranger's words. Her lips parted, but for once, the witty comeback died in her throat.

Then, the boy turned his body fully toward the corner of the room. Toward the wood paneling. Towards Will.

The silence in the basement became a physical weight. The boy stopped speaking or grinning. His posture lost that easy, confident Wheeler slope, his shoulders dropping as he simply stared at the nineteen-year-old sitting on the floor. A spitting image of himself, or maybe the other way around.

Will felt the gaze like a sudden drop in temperature. Inside his chest, a cold, violent spiral began to spin. He looked at the boy’s face, at those green eyes that were a mirror of his own and then he looked at Mike, who was standing frozen by the stairs, looking like he wanted to swallow his own tongue. Will’s mind raced into the darkest, most terrifying corners of his own insecurities. He started counting his losses early.

He’s Mike’s son, The realization slicing through him like a blade. He’s Mike’s son and he’s calling everyone uncle and auntie. He knows El. He knows Dustin. He knows Lucas and Max. Will’s fingers dug into the fabric of his jeans, his knuckles aching. But he paused when he saw me. He didn't call me uncle. Why didn't he call me uncle?

A horrible, sickening certainty settled into Will’s gut. I'm not there, he thought, his chest tightening until it was hard to draw a full breath. In the future... I'm not in Mike's life. Maybe I finally became too much of a burden. Maybe I left Hawkins and never came back. Never reached out and they never called either. Or maybe... maybe I died early and now I'm just a ghost to this kid. A name the party doesn't mention because it hurts too much.

Will’s eyes cast downward, his shoulders pulling inward as he tried to disappear into the flannel shirt, waiting for the devastating confirmation that his future was just a zeroed-out space, but the stranger didn't stay in the center of the room. He moved; his heavy footsteps crossed the carpet, deliberate and quick, bypassing the couch entirely. Before Will could even lift his head to look up, the boy dropped to his knees right there on the dusty basement floor.

Without a word of warning, the kid threw his arms around Will’s shoulders.

It didn't feel like a casual greeting. It was a fierce, desperate, crushing hug. The boy buried his face into the crook of Will’s neck, his fingers bunching into the fabric of Will's oversized shirt, holding on as if he were trying to anchor himself to the earth. Will froze, his arms dangling awkwardly at his sides, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. The kid was trembling. He smelled like winter air and something faint and sweet, like a cedarwood cologne that hadn't been invented yet.

"You really are..." the boy choked out, his voice muffled against Will’s shoulder, thick with an emotion that sounded dangerously close to tears. "You really are the most beautiful person ever. Papa wasn't exaggerating. Not even a little bit. No-now I get it."

Will’s brain completely short-circuited. He sat there, utterly paralyzed, his face burning a bright, furious crimson under the fluorescent lights. His mind scrambled to process the words. What did he get? What did Mike mean by that? What the fuck is happening right now? He didn't dare ask anything because he couldn't form the words even if he wanted to. He just felt the immense, terrifying weight of this grown boy’s love pouring into him, a love that felt entirely unearned yet profoundly heavy.

From the base of the stairs, Mike let out a strange, choked sound. Seeing his secret, agonizing crush being hugged by his future son was doing something catastrophic to his sanity. He stepped forward, his hands twitching at his sides, his eyes locked onto the way the boy’s leather jacket bunched against Will’s flannel. He saw the way Will didn't hug him back and how he had so many questions inside his eyes, but he was too humble to ask them.

"Hey," Mike said, his voice cracking on the syllable, clearing his throat quickly to try and regain some semblance of authority. "Hey, kid. Hands off for a second, okay? Answer me something."

The boy slowly pulled back from the hug, though his hands remained resting gently on Will’s shoulders for a beat longer than necessary before he sat back on his heels. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, looking up at Mike.

Mike swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Will’s flushed, confused face and the kid's green eyes. "Are we... in the future, I mean... are we all still close? Like, the Party? Does it stay together?"

The boy looked around the room, taking in Dustin’s wide-eyed stare, Lucas’s tense posture, El’s quiet curiosity and Max’s sharp, calculating gaze. The sorrow in his eyes seemed to lift for a brief moment, replaced by that great, deep, unshakeable pride.

He gave a firm, decisive nod.

"Super close," the boy said, his voice ringing clear and true in the quiet basement. "You guys never let go. In fact, our house in New York is the go-to hangout spot for all of us."

Everyone conjured up a sweet smile. Maybe it was the sweetness of the boy's words, or maybe it was just pure relief that, despite everything, they stuck together and didn't let go. 

Interrupting the moment, Dustin slapped both hands flat onto the wooden table. The sudden crack of his palms against the D&D maps made Lucas jump.

"Time out! Everyone just shut up!" Dustin scrambled out from where he was sitting, nearly tripping over the leg of the table as he thrust a pointing finger toward the ceiling. "We are breaking every single rule of the localized spacetime manifold right now. Have none of you seen Back to the Future? This isn't a game; it is precise, non-linear thermodynamics. If he tells us about our future, we get an information loop with no traceable origin. It is a bootstrap paradox. The resulting causal feedback will completely destabilize this timeline. We can’t ask him about college, we can’t ask him about sports events and we definitely can't ask him where we end up!"

"Dustin, he literally just looked at me and told me my skateboard model with modifications. Not even Lucas knows about that shit," Max pointed out, her voice flat, though her fingers were tightly gripping the fabric of her jeans. "... and he’s sitting in Mike’s basement in 1989 when he clearly looks like he's twenty-something old from 3000 something."

"2026 and I'm 19!" The kid corrected.

"I think the universe is already pretty un-made."

"It doesn't matter, Max!" Dustin shouted, his vest puffed out as he paced in a small circle around the side support pole. "Information from the future is like a radioactive isotope. A little bit leaks out and boom, your future self mutates. What if Lucas stops practicing basketball because he thinks his spot is guaranteed? What if you don't change the model and it ruins the timeline? We need a strict embargo. No more questions."

"Oh, so we're just supposed to let a random guy sit on the floor and call us aunt and uncle without even knowing what to call him?" Max rolled her eyes, pushing off the arm of the couch and taking two deliberate steps toward the kneeling boy. She looked down at him, her arms crossing over her chest. "Hey. Future boy. What’s your name?"

The boy looked up from his spot on the carpet, glancing nervously at Mike, then back to Max. He rubbed the back of his neck, something that Mike does often, clearing anxiety that's flickering across his features.

"I'm Forsythe. Forsythe Wheeler-By-uh, Mike's son from the future." He caught himself so fast his teeth clicked together, the final syllable dying on his tongue. He clamped his mouth shut, his eyes widening as he realized how close he’d just come to a massive mistake.

Max’s eyebrows shot straight up into her hairline with an implication she almost caught and was sure no one else did.

"Forsythe?" she repeated, a sharp, disbelieving laugh bursting out of her. She whipped around to face Mike, pointing a finger at him. "Forsythe? What kind of a ridiculous, preppy name is that, Wheeler? Did you name your kid after an English butler? Is your middle name Bartholomew?"

"Hey! Shut up, Mayfield!" Mike snapped instantly, his chest puffing out as his defensive instincts kicked into high gear. He stepped forward, his face turning a blotchy, frustrated red as he glared at her. "It is a beautiful name, okay? Derived from literature-"

"-like Fredrick Forsythe-" The kid chimed in.

"Exactly! The legendary writer."

"Who died in 2025-"

"Kid, please, stop giving us spoilers of the future," Dustin said in an annoyed voice.

"It has class! You wouldn't know anything about it, Max." Mike interjected, still standing on his point, while Max smirked and rolled her eyes at him the same way Jug did at the exact moment. Max caught that little movement in her periphery.

Mike shifted his gaze toward the floor, looking desperately for backup. "Tell her, Will. Tell her it’s a good one!"

His brow furrowed as he silently pleaded for some sort of recognition, some kind of shared defense against the absolute abomination of a name this kid was claiming. He looked at Will as if expecting him to easily take over the case, to step in and fiercely own that this name had history and beauty hidden somewhere that Max is unable to find. 

Will didn't hesitate; he just slowly nodded, his gaze dropping to the floorboards as he cleared his throat, his face turning a deep, guilty shade of crimson under the basement lights.

"It's-it's such a pretty name. Reminds me of our old Pep comics with Archie and friends, we-we used to read out in the tool shed when we were twelve."

"My friends call me Jug," the boy offered quietly from the floor, trying to soften the breakdown that his name caused. "I had a weird beanie phase..."

Inside Will's chest, a completely different kind of storm was ripping through his ribs. The name Forsythe hit him like a pang in the chest, leaving him entirely breathless. He stared at his knees, his hands trembling so hard he had to tuck them under his thighs to hide it.

He knew that name. He knew it because it was his own secret. Four years ago, during one of those long, suffocating nights in Lenora where the silence felt too heavy to bear, Will had sat by his bedroom window with a sketchbook that had half-made comics in it. He had looked out at the California stars and allowed himself to imagine a life he knew he could never have.

A domestic, quiet life.

Despite having no prospect of a future partner and being conflicted with his sexuality, he dared to hope still. He had thought about names that felt artistic, strong and completely detached from the trauma of Hawkins. The sketchbook from when they were 12 stretched out in his lap as he saw a character he had built by himself. He named him Forsythe. That comic was supposed to be a joint venture of Mike and Will, but Upside Down took every little with it and churned out some charred piece by Will's feet. 

He loved the name; it was his favorite character from the Pep Comics that he and Mike loved. Even with no contact for months, his mind had slipped to Mike in every waking moment like it was a leech that knew only one source of blood. His soul. 

He thought ahead, thinking if he'll ever escape this maze, or maybe he'll have to reform and get a wife like everyone expects him to. Whatever happens, if he has a kid, a boy, he'd name him Forsythe. The problem here was that he had never whispered it to a single living soul. He hadn't even written it down on paper, terrified that his mom or Jonathan might find it and ask questions.

Did I tell Mike? Will’s mind spiraled, the thoughts twisting into a tight, agonizing knot. I just... suggested it to him? Maybe... maybe Mike and his wife were having a baby, he came to me and asked me for help and I gave him my favorite name. Maybe I never made that comic. Maybe I never had a baby, so I just suggested to him my favorite name and he took it.

The thought made Will’s throat ache with a raw, suffocating sadness. He remained entirely trapped in his own internal war, completely convinced that his role in the future would be nothing more than the lonely best friend, the quiet observer standing on the sidelines, watching Mike build a traditional, happy family with someone else.

A few feet away, Mike was fighting a match with himself that was just as brutal and his defenses were crumbling fast.

He wasn't looking at Max or the boy anymore. His gaze had drifted, staring entirely at the soft crown of Will’s brown hair, his stomach turning over until he felt genuinely, physically sick. The petty smugness of defending his choice of names withered away to nothing, replaced by a cold, hollow dread that settled deep in his bones as the weight of Will's quiet withdrawal finally hit him.

He looked at Jug's green eyes again. Who did I marry for him to have such beautiful eyes? Mike thought, his knuckles tightening into fists inside his pockets. 

The implications were tearing him apart. Mike’s mind raced through every terrible scenario his anxiety could invent. Did I never find the courage to tell Will how I feel? Did we grow apart? Just remained friends? Did I force myself to marry some girl with his eyes just to feel something? Did I hide in the closet for the rest of my life, miserable, while Will went off and found someone else? Or worse... did I actually confess to Will and he rejected me? Did he look at me like I was mad and now this kid is proof that I had to move on without him?

The uncertainty was suffocating. Mike felt a bead of sweat trace down the back of his neck, his throat tight as he looked between the boy on the carpet and the quiet, curled-up posture of his best friend. The secrets he had been carrying, the terrifying realization of his own feelings for Will that had been blooming since Lenora. The ones that only grew stronger when Will came out were now staring him right in the face, completely unresolved, leaving him entirely sick to his stomach.

Jug shifted his weight on the carpet, crossing his legs and resting his large, pale hands on his denim-clad knees. The tension between Mike and Will was practically vibrating through the room, but he drew a slow breath and focused back on the group.

"I didn't mean to break any laws of physics, Uncle Dustin," Jug said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more earnest register. "I just... I needed to know the truth. In the future, you guys won't talk about the old days very much. There are just these lingering shadows in each one of you, you know? I wanted to see it for myself, so I talked to you and you let me through it. I wanted to see what you all went through."

Dustin, who had been mid-pace, stopped completely dead in his tracks. His eyes widened under the brim of his cap. "Wait. Back up. Rewind. Did you just say I sent you here? Me?"

Jug nodded, a faint, affectionate smile touching his lips. "Yeah. You're the one who mapped the macro-scale quantum retrocausality. You actually hold the very first sealed patent for a functioning closed timelike curve mechanism. Although it might be broken now."

Dustin’s chest instantly expanded, his shoulders squaring as a massive, radiant grin broke across his face. He whipped around to face Lucas, slapping his own chest with both hands. All lectures on messing with timelines collapsed at his feet.

"Did you hear that? A patent! I knew it! I am a literal pioneer of modern science! Take that, Mr. Clarke!"

"Don't get too excited, Henderson," Max countered, though a small smile tugged at her lips as she watched Dustin practically vibrate with joy. "He also said the machine might be busted."

Jug’s smile faded, his shoulders slumping a bit as he reached down to touch a small, metallic silver casing clipped to his belt, something Mike hadn't noticed before. "Actually... yeah. That's the problem. Uncle Dustin told me that when the rift opened, there was supposed to be a continuous, localized micro-singularity..." he looked up and saw the confused faces of Lucas, Will and Max, who for the life of them wouldn't figure out what he was talking about. "Oh.. uh, like a little glowing blue hole. It should've been hovering right beside me the entire time. It was my anchor to get back, but... the second I came here, it vanished. It’s totally gone. I think... I think I might be stuck here."

"I can try," El chimed in from the corner. "I can go into the void and see-"

"The future? No Aunt Jane, you can't. I can't tell you how you figured it out. It's a funny story, but... It's a bust." His face made a stupid, smug pout that El saw and smiled at with recognition and acceptance. 

The lighthearted absurdity of the time-travel debate vanished, leaving a heavy, grounded solemnity in its place. Lucas rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze drifting toward the empty D&D table, while El stepped closer to Jug, her wide eyes reflecting a fierce, protective curiosity.

For the next hour, the strict rules of Dustin’s temporal embargo completely dissolved. Sitting in a loose, fractured circle on the worn carpet beneath the low-hanging pipes, the Party began to talk. They held nothing back from him. They dragged everything out into the light, starting from the absolute beginning.

The freezing, damp November night in 1983 when Will vanished into thin air on Mirkwood, the frantic flashing of the Christmas lights strung up in the Byers' living room and the agonizing, faceless shadow monster that had slowly hollowed Will out from the inside. The way Mike turned everything apart to find Will, how he and Joyce completely abandoned the notion that Will is dead. 

As the brutal reality of their childhood spilled into the room, Jug never once took his eyes off Will.

He listened to how Will had survived the Upside Down with nothing but a gun, instinct and bravery. As the details grew more visceral, a sheen of tears brightened Jug’s green eyes. He watched the way Will nervously tracked the pattern of the rug, his thumbs tucking into his sleeves, looking so small against the wood paneling. When they described the hospital in Hawkins Lab, the freezing rooms, the doctors with their clipboards and how Will had screamed when they burned the vines, Jug’s throat visibly swallowed hard.

Then, Jug shifted his gaze to Mike.

Mike was sitting on the edge of the step, his chin resting heavily in his palms, his dark eyes fixed on Will with an expression of raw, helpless devotion that he didn't even realize he was broadcasting to the entire room. Jug looked at Mike and something deep inside his chest seemed to fracture. The sadness in the boy's eyes grew heavier, carrying the weight of a secret he wasn't allowed to share.

"I figured it must be something really bad," Jug whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he looked between the faces of his two teenage fathers. "But hearing this... you guys went through literal hell. The kidnapping, the other dimensions... Papa going completely mad trying to find da-Will and then doing everything just to bring him back home. The hospital, Aunt El losing her powers... It's insane. It’s so wrenching."

"To say it was hell has to be an understatement," Max said as her fingers slowly intertwined with El's, though her eyes never left Jug's face, who was kissing his own teeth by the mistake he had almost committed again. 

"...But you still stood by each other. Through all of it. That's what matters, right? You have... literal superheroes among you... That's insane."

He paused, clearing his throat as he looked over at Max. The leather of his jacket creaked as he shifted closer to the couch. "Aunt Maxine... can I ask you something? About the hospital?"

Max’s posture stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening around the arm of the sofa. "What about it?"

"When you woke up from the coma," Jug said softly, his voice incredibly tender. "Were you scared? Because I only know about the coma and you always tell me that the hardest part wasn't the temporary blindness or the broken bones. It was the feeling that you had left a piece of yourself behind in the dark... and that you hated hospitals."

A sudden, sharp silence fell over the basement. Max looked at the boy, her blue eyes shimmering with a sudden, overwhelming vulnerability. Nobody else had understood that, not the doctors, not even Lucas, not fully. The sheer terror of waking up to a partially black world, wondering if Vecna was still hiding in the corners of her mind. Wondering when he would strike again, or if he'd come back to finish what he started. 

"Yeah," Max whispered, her voice cracking as she looked away, her knuckles white. "Yeah, I'm terrified. Every single day. I hope it gets better in the future."

"It does get better. You don't have to be afraid," Jug said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "You're stronger than any of us give you credit for, TBH."

Everyone had their eyebrows quirked on the acronym, but the heavy emotional weight of the questioning stares and the conversation was interrupted by a loud, sudden honk from the driveway upstairs. The pizza had finally arrived. Forty minutes late.

Lucas jumped up immediately, his stomach loudly protesting the emotional drama and ran up the stairs to grab the boxes. Within minutes, the basement was filled with the rich, greasy scent of pepperoni and sausage. Dustin immediately dragged a spare notepad toward himself, dumping a pile of half-eaten crusts onto a paper plate as he began scribbling frantic, chaotic mathematical equations, trying to calculate the frequency of a missing future anchor. Lucas and El were huddled near the food, talking in low, quiet murmurs, leaving a small pocket of quiet in the center of the room.

Mike and Will had lost their appetites completely, the greasy scent of the pepperoni suddenly making them feel sick, but they had to pretend for the sake of the room. Moving like robots, they forced themselves to gulp down the heavy slices without even chewing, practically inhaling the food and washing it down with huge, burning swallows of warm cherry soda. Trying to hide from everyone just how badly their hands were shaking. Stealing glances at each other when the other wasn't looking.

Across the room, Max adjusted her jacket, her sharp eyes tracking the movement of the group. Everyone was busy making theories or eyeing each other. While Dustin was loudly arguing with Lucas over a scrap of paper covered in scribbled calculus and El was carefully stealing Lucas' drooping slice of pizza from his plate, Max moved.

Her fingers shot out, catching Jug’s leather sleeve with a sudden, firm tug. She leaned in close to the boy’s ear, her red hair brushing his shoulder.

"Upstairs," she muttered, her voice dropping into that low, commanding tone that left zero room for discussion. "Now."

Jug blinked, a look of mild confusion crossing his face, but he didn't protest. He let her pull him up the creaking wooden steps, their sneakers making a soft, rhythmic thudding sound until they reached the main hallway. The Wheeler kitchen was bright and empty, the yellow linoleum floor still gleaming from Karen’s morning cleaning routine. Max didn't stop there. She steered him down the hall into the cramped coat room that now served as a laundry area, shutting the door behind them with a sharp click that cut off the distant murmur of the basement.

The room smelled strongly of powdered detergent and damp cotton. Max leaned her lower back against the vibrating white washing machine, crossing her arms over her chest. She tilted her head, her sharp blue eyes locking onto his face, scanning the precise way his brow furrowed when he was nervous.

"Alright, freak show," Max started, her voice dropping the sarcastic edge, replaced by an intense, terrifying clarity. "Spill it. Tell me everything."

Jug rubbed the back of his neck, looking around at the stacks of plastic laundry baskets. "Tell you what, Aunt Max? I already-"

"Don't 'Aunt Max' me," she interrupted, taking a half-step forward. Her expression was dead serious. "I watched you downstairs. I watched the way you look at Mike, the way you look at Will and the way you look at me. I know that specific, stubborn look in your eye and the infamous roll. I see it in the mirror every single morning. Only a kid of mine could look that deeply annoyed by Mike Wheeler's voice. So stop playing dumb."

Jug stared at her for a long, quiet moment, his green eyes searching her face as if looking for a trace of the woman she would eventually become. Slowly, the defensive posture melted away from his shoulders, the stiff tension draining completely out of his frame. He let out a long, heavy sigh that rattled in his chest, rubbing his palms together to chase away the sudden chill before tucking them deep into the pockets of his jacket.

"Mom," Jug said softly, a small, weary smile breaking through his exhaustion as if he had given up trying to uphold his walls. "I had a hunch you'd figure it out sooner than everyone else. You are the smartest one after all."

Max’s shoulders dropped slightly, a breath leaking out of her lips. A strange, complicated mixture of shock and fierce satisfaction washed over her face. "So... I carried you? For them?" She let out a dry, breathless laugh, shaking her head.

"Traditional surrogacy. You'll learn about this soon."

"I know what it is, idiot."

Jug let out a low chuckle. Of course, she knew about it. 

"I am not completely surprised, but I'm honestly pretty glad that Wheeler got his head out of his ass."

Jug’s smile turned a little bittersweet. He looked toward the floor, his fingers tracing the seam of his pocket. "Right now, down there... both of my fathers look so completely confused and sad. It's miserable to watch. They're terrified of what this all means. What I mean."

"I mean, I can see why Mike is breaking out in hives. You look so much like Will. Your eyes, your voice, your hair and even your jawline. He's probably thinking if he married a woman like Will. He's that stupid!"

"Yeah, but they still look like lost puppies down there-"

"They'll figure it out later in life," Max said firmly, waving a hand dismissing the teenage drama. "They always do. They're like two magnets, Jug. It’s annoying, really. If you spend half as much time as we all spent together these past few years, you'd know what I'm talking about."

Jug didn't laugh. He leaned his head back against the wood-paneled wall of the laundry room, the old drywall giving a slight creak under his weight as his green eyes clouded over with a profound, heavy sorrow. The easy, confident charm he had carried since stepping through the rift vanished entirely, leaving behind the raw vulnerability of a kid who now knew exactly how much pain it had taken to build the family he loved. He looked down at his scuffed sneakers, the hum of the washing machine nearby vibrating through the soles of his shoes, grounding him in a decade that felt both impossibly distant and heartbreakingly fragile.

He took a slow breath, his fingers clenching into tight fists inside the pockets of his jacket. When he looked back up at Max, the sheer weight of decades of unspoken history seemed to rest on his young shoulders, his gaze dark with a grief that hadn't even happened yet for the kids in this basement. It was the look of someone who had seen the scars, heard the late-night whispers by the fireplace, saw his fathers loving each other through everything and understood that every ounce of the future Mike and Will shared had been bought with a devastating, unimaginable price.

"They're getting a divorce, Mom."

The words fell between them like lead, heavy and entirely immovable.

Max froze, her arms slowly uncoiling from her chest as her defensive posture completely failed her. The fleeting satisfaction of her interrogation vanished from her face, leaving her expression stripped bare and replaced by a deep, hollow confusion that made her look suddenly very small beneath the harsh basement light.

"What? What are you talking about? Mike and Will? Divorce?"

"A few years ago, something changed," Jug whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of the memory. "They started getting into these huge, wrecking fights over everything. Small things, big things, just constantly bickering or completely silent. It never happened throughout my childhood. I always saw them loving each other through everything, but then the fights started and then one night, a few weeks ago... Dad-Will said he couldn't do it anymore. He said he wanted a divorce. Papa has been so angry and so incredibly sad all the time since then. Dad sleeps in another room now. They haven't officially filed the paperwork yet, but the whole house is... it's haunting... the look on their faces every single morning... it's just so heartbreaking that I-"

"That you went running to Dustin for advice and the idiot actually sent you back to 1989?" Max interjected, her eyebrows shooting up. He gave a sharp, sarcastic nod in return.

"I asked for this specific year. Dunno what I was thinking." Jug caught her gaze and a sudden, involuntary smirk broke through his tears. "I just wanted a glimpse of them so I can go back and do something about it. Guess I'm stupid too!"

"You can't be stupid. You're my son."

The sheer absurdity of the situation hit them both at the exact same time and before Max could stop herself, a loud laugh burst from her throat. Jug joined in, the sound of their shared amusement echoing off the metallic sides of the dryer, a brief, necessary shield against the misery of the future.

As the laughter settled, Jug’s expression softened into something deeply melancholic. He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a gentle narrative rhythm. "It’s not all bad in the future, you know... Uncle Jon and Aunt Nancy... they ended up together. They have two kids, Kevin and Veronica. They're great. You and Uncle Lucas are good, too. The best, actually!"

"And the others?"

"Robin is married to a redhead named Cheryl. Uncle Steve is a divorcee and father of two. Josie and Melody. He's a fun guy, but a bit cringe."

"Steve should never have been in charge of naming his kids. I get why he's divorced." Max smiled slightly, leaning back against the washing machine again. "What about your grandparents? I bet Joyce is the best."

"I had the most amazing gramas ever, not gonna lie," Jug said, his eyes shining with a distant affection. "They spoiled me completely. I was a brat... Dad and Papa had to ground me several times to make sure I didn't misbehave, but a phone call to Montauk or Hawkins and voila. I was free!"

A wave of laughter erupted from both their throats, a sudden, bright sound that broke the tension. Max watched his face contorting in laughter, having absolutely no inkling of how those phone calls must have actually gone.

Michael, now you know the pain of raising children who don't listen to you.

Honey, he's a kid; of course, he'll create a mess like this. 

That was the true beauty of Karen and Joyce: they lit up every room they walked into, no matter what kind of hell they’d been through. Watching the echo of them in Jug's voice, Max had absolutely no doubt that they would make legendary, fiercely protective and utterly spoiling grandmothers to Jug.

"Grama Joyce died about six years ago. It was hard on everyone, especially Dad. Big Jim still checks on me all the time, though. He always calls the house and asks me to come visit him at his cabin. Veronica and Kevin come along too."

Life is never fair and it is never static. Where there is happiness, pain inevitably follows, casting its shadow over the brightest moments. No matter what horrors they had already faced, what dimensions they had survived, the real test, the agonizing brutality of watching someone you love fade away right before your eyes remained the hardest thing any of them would ever have to endure.

Max’s expression faltered, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she processed the losses of the years ahead. She knew she'd be hugging Karen and Joyce harder every moment she'd see them again from now on. As if she could stop the inevitable from happening.

"and... Ted?"

Jug’s chest hitched, his shoulder dropping. "Ted was a great granpa, actually. He surprised everyone by being so attentive and loving. Papa and Aunt Nancy couldn't believe their eyes at the way he treated me. We'd always have the best cookouts when he was there, but... a few years back, he had a massive heart attack. He and grama Karen were driving back to Hawkins after... visiting us. They... they died. Aunt Holly never recovered from that trauma. We all live close to her, so she has someone to talk to whenever she feels like it."

The laundry room grew incredibly quiet, the distant, rhythmic thumping of the refrigerator outside suddenly sounding like a ticking clock. Max looked down at her battered sneakers, nodding slowly as the weight of time, the inevitable, cruel march of it, settled deep into her chest. It was a deeply jarring thing, standing inside a teenage body, listening to a boy from another decade describe the deaths of the adults who were currently parent-figures to them all, completely unaware of the future.

Jug noticed the sudden shift in her mood, the way her shoulders had dropped under the heavy denim of her jacket. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight off the wood-paneled wall as a sudden, mischievous glint returned to his green eyes, deliberately cutting through the grim silence before it could swallow them completely.

"If you want some gossip to lighten the mood... it’s a total secret, right now, but... in the future, Uncle Dustin and Aunt El get married."

A sharp gasp caught in Max’s throat, her jaw dropping as she stared at him in absolute, unadulterated shock. The cynical armor she always wore completely shattered, leaving her wide-eyed and frozen as she tried to process what he had just said. She felt like she just heard the most juicy gossip and didn't know how to process it.

"No way! Dustin and El? She chose the guy who talks about radio towers for three hours straight? Oh my God, it's so cute."

"He fascinates her with science every single day," Jug laughed, the tension breaking completely. "Oh and by the way, me telling you this won't mess with the timelines. That theory is debunked by Uncle Dustin himself."

The laughter faded, leaving behind a warm, heavy silence that seemed to insulate the small room from the rest of the house. Jug reached out, his large hand gently but deliberately folding over Max’s smaller, calloused one. Without a word, he lifted her knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss against the rough skin, a silent, sacred promise from a future she couldn't yet see.

"You and Aunt El... you were the best figures for me while I was growing up," Jug said, his voice thick with profound gratitude. "My dads were amazing, of course... They gave me the best childhood ever. I can see they gave me everything that they couldn't have and then there was always you and Papa, completely bickering over every chance you guys get. You all made my childhood awesome."

Max let out a genuine laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Of course, your father would bicker with me. I already know exactly how it went. I probably offered to carry you because I love Will and Wheeler got completely mad because then he couldn't annoy me throughout the time of pregnancy. His nerves would be jumbled."

"Actually," Jug murmured, his thumb gently tracing the back of her hand. "He really loves you, Mom. He never says it to your face, obviously, but he is so incredibly grateful for what you did. He thanks you every chance he gets. He urged me to call you mom because he knows that you like it. He always remembers your birthday and he makes sure to buy you something perfect, because he’s just so thankful."

"Unbelievable."

"You know what? Dad told me that Papa thanked you a thousand times after you gave birth to me, although you were passed out and weren't listening... and you couldn't care less, but he still went on and on." A laugh fell out of his mouth. "He’ll just never admit it because you two still like annoying each other too much."

A sudden, sharp prickle of water burned behind Max’s eyes. She jerked her head away for a fraction of a second, fiercely blinking them back and clearing her throat to stop the uncharacteristic emotion from spilling over. When she looked back at him, the sarcasm was completely gone, replaced by a small, fiercely affectionate smile that touched the corners of her lips.

"I love him too," Max whispered, her voice carrying a rare, raw sincerity. "He’s an absolute asshole and he’s a total blabbermouth sometimes, but... he’s a good guy and most of all, Jug... he is one of the people who helped me come back to life when everything was dark around me. He was such a great friend. He knows I love bullying him, so he just lets me. I came back to life very slowly and he was there like a good brother and a great friend, making sure I was alright. I would always be grateful for his bickering self, but I will deny it to my grave, so don't tell him that..."

The laundry room door suddenly clicked open, swinging back hard against the drywall with a hollow thud.

Mike stood framed in the doorway, a stack of cheap paper napkins crumpled in one hand and a deeply suspicious frown twisting his sharp features. His dark eyes darted rapidly between Max and Jug, instantly narrowing to slits as he took in their joined hands and the heavy, quiet intimacy vibrating through the small space. His jaw tightened, his posture instantly rigid with the territorial, overprotective instinct of a team captain discovering a secret huddle he hadn't authorized.

"Mayfield," Mike grumbled, his voice dropping into that familiar, defensive Wheeler register. "Are you poisoning my son against me?"

Max didn't even blink. She let go of Jug’s hand, crossing her arms again as a sharp, wicked smirk returned to her face. "He has your DNA, Wheeler. He’s already pretty poisoned. I won't do much."

Jug watched them trade the familiar barbs, the effortless, rapid-fire rhythm of their decades-old rivalry playing out right in front of his eyes exactly as he’d always heard it. A deep, heavy sense of relief washed over him, a physical weight lifting from his chest as he realized that despite the looming threats and the trauma, they were still exactly who they were supposed to be. He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his shoulders shaking with quiet amusement as he stood from beside Max, crossed his arms and leaned back against the doorframe, content to just watch the show.

"God," Jug whispered, as he smiled at them. "This feels so much like home."

The dry, electric click of the laundry room lightbulb snapped through the lingering laughter, instantly killing the warmth in the room.

The small space transformed. The standard, dull yellow glow vanished, swallowed whole by an abrupt, blinding surge of neon blue. It wasn't the erratic, stuttering blink that usually heralded the tearing of the Upside Down; there were none of the violent, pulsing shadows they had all learned to fear. This light was heavy, uniform and terrifyingly steady. It flooded the room, turning the white enamel of the washing machine a strange, futuristic shade of sapphire and casting long, razor-sharp silhouettes against the wood-paneled walls.

From deep beneath their feet, a low, tectonic hum began to vibrate through the floorboards. It wasn't a sound heard through the ears; it was a physical frequency that rattled the fillings in Mike’s teeth and made the metal hangers on the laundry rack jingle into a frantic, chaotic chorus.

"Mike! Max! Get the hell down here right now!"

Dustin’s voice tore through the floor vents, echoing up from the basement stairs. The sheer volume of it nearly rattled the wooden door off its hinges. It was a terrifying, chaotic sound for a person of a calm nature. It was a frantic blend of absolute panic and pure, unadulterated scientific ecstasy.

"It's looping! Someone is coming to get him back! Move, move, move!"

Mike didn't wait to ask questions. His defensive instincts, honed by years of running for his life, took over instantly. He shoved the paper napkins into his back pocket, grabbed Max and Jug by their elbows to steady them as the floor beneath them continued to hum. He sprinted down the narrow hallway toward the living room. Jug followed right on their heels, one of his elbows held by his father's younger self, his shoes thudding hard against the carpet, his face suddenly pale under the intense blue glare.

They burst into the basement just as the phenomenon reached its peak. Mike shoved Jug deep inside the basement, slammed him closer to the back wall, behind everyone, as his fatherly instinct kicked in prematurely. The entire house felt like it was tilting on a microscopic axis. Every light in the room, the overhead ones, the decorative fixtures, the expensive lamp by Ted’s armchair, the brass floor lamp by the television and the crappy basement lighting were glowing with that same unyielding, electric blue.

Right in the center of the beige carpet, between the ragged couch and the coffee table, reality simply unraveled.

The space tore like the fleshy, bleeding gates of Vecna’s making, a violent, vertical tear of pure, shimmering light fractured the room. Sparks of neon blue and silver snapped off the edges, smelling sharply of ozone and scorched copper, sizzling as they dissolved before touching the furniture.

Dustin, Lucas and El had already scrambled up from their spaces, huddled tightly together by the television set, hovering Jug from the front. Dustin’s hat was pushed so far back on his head it was practically falling off, his eyes wide as he clutched his scribbled notepad to his chest like a holy relic. Will was a step behind them, his fingers digging into the back of the sofa, his eyes wide and completely frozen as he watched the rift pulse. His eyes moved frantically between Mike and Jug, protectively. He ran, covering the room with two single strides and caught Jug by his arm, looping him behind him to save him from the blinding lights and the rush of the scene because it was too overwhelming.

With a sound like a vacuum seal snapping open, the tear widened.

Two large figures stumbled through the blinding light, collapsing forward onto the worn Wheeler carpet with a heavy, uncoordinated thud. Behind them, the rift instantly shrank, snapping into a microscopic point with a sharp, concussive pop that left only the bitter smell of ozone and the steady, blue hum of the lamps in its wake.

The two men lay on the floor for a long moment, catching their breath in ragged, desperate gasps. They looked completely disheveled, their clothes hopelessly wrinkled and their hair tossed as if they had just ridden through the center of a localized tornado.

The man on the left scrambled to his knees first. He was unusually tall, with a sharp, angular jawline and dark, messy hair just beginning to gray at the temples. He wore a long, expensive-looking trench coat over a dark sweater, though the premium fabric was now covered in deep creases. Lying flat on the floor in a dingy basement, he looked sharp, editorial and completely stressed out of his mind with his glasses hanging on his nose.

Beside him, the second man pushed himself up smoothly with the help of the previous man. He was dressed in a soft, well-fitted olive sweater, his features elegant and gentle, though his face was pale with exhaustion. Streaks of pure silver caught the blue light in his chestnut hair.

Mike stared at the first man, his chest heaving, his mouth falling open as he looked into a mirror that had aged nearly forty years. He took in the familiar, sharp bridge of the nose, the defensive, rigid set of the shoulders and the frantic, territorial way the man’s eyes immediately swept the room.

Then, his gaze drifted to the second man.

The man was looking around the basement with an expression of profound, aching nostalgia. When he turned his head toward the stairs, the steady blue light caught his eyes. They were hazel-green, beautiful, deep and completely unmistakable. The face looked older, but it aged so gracefully and beautifully that Mike couldn't believe his eyes. He never saw an old man this pretty.

Will, standing frozen by the back wall, let out a tiny, choked gasp, his hand flying to his mouth as he stared at the older version of himself. The basement secrets, the internal wars, the terrifying confusion of the last two hours, everything converged into a single, breathtaking point in the center of the room.

The blue glow of the living room lamps caught the heavy silver threading through Older Will’s hair as he steadied himself on the carpet, gripping Older Mike's hands. He looked every bit the creative soul he had always been, wearing a thick olive-green sweater that fit him perfectly, the soft wool slightly rumpled from the journey. Beside him, Older Mike was already trying to pace in a frantic, tight circle near the television set. He looked sharp, sophisticated, like someone who had grown into his long limbs, but his expensive trench coat was completely disheveled, the collar flipped up haphazardly on one side. He looked entirely consumed by a manic, protective panic.

They didn't even notice the audience of teenagers paralyzing the room because they were too busy looking at the interior around and whispering to each other. They were already locked into an argument that had clearly been raging across two different eras.

"-I told you his manual calculations were completely off, Will! I told you!" Older Mike said, his voice a deeper, raspy echo of Young Mike’s familiar whine. He threw his hands up in the air, his long fingers cutting through the neon-blue light. "His assistant said that his math was off by a whole decade! If his stupid machine dropped our son into the wrong year, I swear to God I am going to tear that radio tower down with my bare hands and shove it up his ass-"

"Mike, shut up and look around you," Older Will interrupted. His voice was incredibly quiet, but it possessed a grounded, steady authority that instantly clipped the end of Mike’s tirade.

Older Will, as an act of comfort, reached out and slid his forearm through Older Mike’s, intertwining their arms with a familiarity that could only be forged over decades of shared history. The movement was instinctive, an automatic anchor against the chaos. Older Mike stopped his attempts at pacing immediately. His broad hand came down over Will’s forearm, his fingers cupping the soft wool of his sweater and squeezing tightly, a comforting, territorial gesture that seemed to physically ground them both.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the center of the Wheeler basement, their grip on each other unyielding, their breathing heavy as they finally took in the frozen faces of the past. They didn't notice their son hiding behind the surprised faces yet.

The wood-paneled walls of the basement felt smaller now, crowded by the presence of two grown men who carried themselves with the heavy, quiet confidence of people who had survived the end of the world and kept walking.

Lucas stood frozen near the armchair, a half-eaten, stale slice of pizza dangling limply from his fingers, grease dripping onto the paper plate unnoticed. Beside him, El’s eyes were wide, her small hands flat against her sides as she stared at the older version of the boy she had spent years trying to understand and then eventually gave up. Dustin had stopped breathing entirely, his mouth hanging open so wide his teeth showed beneath his cap, his knuckles white around his notebook. Max remained leaning against the back wall, her sharp eyes darting between the two older men, her lips pressed into a tight, calculating line.

The real seismic shift was happening on the other side of the room.

Young Mike stood completely paralyzed at the base of the stairs. He stared at his older self, his throat working as he tried to swallow down a lump of pure, unadulterated shock. He looked at the expensive, wrinkled trench coat, the taller frame, the lines etched deeply around the eyes, lines that looked like they came from years of squinting through stress and worrying over things that hadn't happened yet. It was a terrifying, mesmerizing mirror.

Young Will was suffocating in the corner. His back was pressed so hard against Jug that it hurt, his hazel-green eyes locked entirely on Older Will. His heart skipped a beat and then it stopped completely. The silver hair at the older man's temples, the soft knit of the olive sweater, it was all a blur because Will’s gaze had dropped down to their intertwined arms.

There, catching the intense, neon-blue light of the lamps, were two matching bands of polished white gold. One on Mike’s long finger. One on Will’s left hand.

They were... married? They were... together?

The secret, agonizing dream that Will had buried beneath layers of shame and quiet tears in Lenora and then Hawkins, labeling it as a crush, wasn't just a fantasy. It was a guarantee. It was standing right there on the old basement carpet, holding hands. The relief and the terror of it hit Will all at once, making his knees tremble beneath his oversized flannel.

Older Mike’s eyes finally drifted away from his husband's face, scanning the small, wood-paneled room. He looked at the teenage versions of his best friends, his gaze lingering on the old wooden coffee table and the ancient television set.

"Holy shit, Dustin actually did it, didn't he?" Older Mike muttered, his voice a deep, gravelly echo of his youth. A breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips as he looked down at their intertwined hands, then back at the kids. "That asshole really pulled it off."

Older Will turned his head, a beautifully soft, knowing smile breaking across his features as he looked at his husband. "Stop glazing that asshole. My son is still missing Mike," he whispered, his thumb rubbing comforting circles against Mike's forearm that felt like sarcasm in non-verbal form.

"I'm not!" Before Older Mike could offer another frantic, high-strung Wheeler retort, both men’s eyes snapped toward the back wall, behind young Will.

Jug was standing there.

The moment their eyes landed on the boy in the leather jacket, the world ceased to exist for them. The panic, the argument about manual calculations, the stress of the timeline, it all evaporated in a single, simultaneous breath. The absolute, unbridled relief that flooded Mike and Will’s faces changed their entire posture, stripping away the exhaustion in a second.

"Jug!" Mike shouted, his voice cracking with a raw, paternal desperation.

“Jug, my baby…” Will cooed.

They both rushed forward at the exact same time. They completely ignored the teenagers, nearly tripping over the edge of the coffee table as they launched themselves across the living room. Mike reached him first, his long arms throwing themselves around Jug’s shoulders, pulling his son into his chest with a terrifying, protective force. A second later, Will crashed into them from the side, his arms wrapping around both of them, his hands burying into the fabric of Jug’s jacket as he let out a shaky, sobbing breath.

It was a total, overwhelming family affair. The three of them stood locked together under the steady blue light, swaying slightly from the momentum, squeezing each other so tightly that the leather and wool of their clothes groaned under the pressure. Jug buried his face between his father's shoulders, his hands clutching at Mike’s trench coat and Will’s sweater, sniffling loudly as the terrifying weight of being lost in time finally shattered into pure safety.

The smell of them, the familiar, comforting blend of cedarwood, ink and paints, surrounded him completely, pulling him out of the cold uncertainty of timeline issues and pinning him back to reality. It was a complete anchor, a tight, protective huddle right in the middle of the Wheeler basement.

Slowly, Jug loosened his grip. He braced his palms against their chests and pulled back just a few inches, his green eyes raw and bright with tears as he looked between his two older fathers. Older Mike still had a firm hand wrapped around the back of Jug’s neck, his dark eyes wide with an intense, lingering panic, while Older Will’s fingers remained tightly locked onto Jug's sleeve, his lips trembling.

Jug swallowed the lump in his throat, his gaze drifting away from them. He turned his head and slowly gestured toward the rest of the room.

He pointed toward the teenagers who stood frozen like statues under the blue lamps. He pointed to Lucas, whose face still carried the exhaustion of the hospital waiting rooms under the layers of his skin; to El, with her cropped hair and the quiet, heavy sorrow in her eyes, transitioning from a weapon to a normal girl; to Max, leaning against the wall with her hands tucked into her pockets to hide their shaking and finally, to the teenage versions of Mike and Will, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, looking bruised, fragile and deeply traumatized by the horrors they had spent the last few years fighting.

Jug looked back at his parents, his face twisting with a sudden, painful confusion.

"I don't... I just don't understand," Jug whispered, his voice cracking on the syllables as a fresh tear slipped down his cheek. He gestured more frantically toward the kids again. "This... this is what you went through. I just spent the last few hours hearing everything. The kidnapping, the freezing cold of that other dimension... Papa going completely out of his mind across dimensions just to find you, Dad. Not believing even when they pulled a fake of the lake and even then, he did everything in his power to bring you back home. The Upside Down, the hospital beds, holding each other through everything... the trauma of it. This is what you survived?"

He took a sharp, trembling breath, his fingers digging into Future Mike's coat sleeves as his voice rose, thick with an agonizing, decades-old question.

"You did all of this together," Jug choked out, his chest heaving as he stared into his father's identical expressions of sudden, crushing realization. "You broke through dimensions for each other when you were just kids. So how? How am I ever supposed to believe you two when you look me in the eye and tell me that you just fell out of love with each other?"

HOW CAN YOU SAY IT WAS NEVER IN THE CARDS, BASTARDS?

The heavy question landed in the center of the basement like a physical blow, fracturing the silence.

By the base of the table, Young Mike’s face went completely taut. The words sliced right through his defensive exterior, hitting the exact center of the terrifying secret he had been hiding in his chest for years. He dropped his gaze to his sneakers, his jaw clenching so hard it ached as a single, hot tear escaped his eye. The reality of his own suffocating feelings, the fierce, consuming devotion he had been trying so desperately to mask as simple friendship, had just been laid entirely bare in front of the whole room.

This is my friend, Mike. Will had said, when his mind was completely fractured by possession. A piece of his heart still recognized the boy he met at the swings, even in the worst of situations. The words echoed loudly in Mike's mind.

It was never just friendship or infatuation or the proximity; it was love all along and Mike was the dumbest person to ever walk the Earth.

A few feet away, Young Will looked away too, his face burning a brilliant, painful crimson under the neon lamps. The agonizing internal war he had been fighting since those early nights in Lenora, the absolute certainty that his love for Mike was a lonely, dangerous thing that could only end in ruin, was suddenly shattered. The truth was out in the light, undeniable and heavy, leaving his chest aching with a strange, overwhelming mixture of raw exposure and terrifying relief. The love he was certain would ruin everything if anyone ever found out was suddenly visible to every single person in the room.

I asked if you wanted to be my friend and you said yes. You said yes.

It was the best thing I've ever done.

The ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound left in the room, sharp and rhythmic against the heavy, sudden quiet that enveloped Will's heart.

In the center of the carpet, Older Mike and Will slowly let their hands drop from Jug's shoulders. They turned their heads, their eyes moving away from their son to look across the room at the teenagers they used to be.

Seeing their younger selves, so incredibly fragile, so heavily marked by the bruises of a war they were still fighting to some extent, yet so completely wrapped up in each other’s orbits, acted like a physical mirror. It was a brutal, beautiful reminder of the foundation they had built their entire lives upon.

A simultaneous, long sigh deflated from both men's chests, the high-strung tension that had carried them through the temporal rift simply melting away. Older Mike lifted his right hand, his long fingers automatically reaching up to rub the back of his neck in a sharp, nervous gesture. At the exact same microsecond, Young Mike’s hand unconsciously mirrored the movement by the stairs.

Older Mike caught the movement, looking over at Older Will and a breathless, half-broken laugh escaped his lips. The sharp, defensive anger that had wrinkled his trench coat was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, deep devotion that had survived thirty-seven years of reality.

They both reached down at the same time, pulling Jug back into a softer, tighter embrace.

"This morning," Older Mike said, his voice dropping into a rough, raspy rumble as he tucked Jug’s head under his chin. "When you pulled this insane stunt, Juggie... your dad and I were already sitting at the table calling the whole thing off. We were already deciding against the divorce. You didn't even give us a five-minute head start to tell you."

"Which means your visits to Dustin's are completely supervised from now on," Older Will added, though a small, watery smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he smoothed down the back of Jug's denim jacket. 

From behind the television, Dustin instantly puffed his chest out, his cap shifting as he stepped forward. "Hey! Come on! You called me an asshole and I didn't say anything, but you can't just blacklist me from my own nephew's life! That's a total violation of free will!"

Older Mike didn't even look up, letting out a faint, dry snort that the rest of the Party completely ignored, the small burst of familiar giggles instantly cutting through the heavy, suffocating emotion in the room.

"We just... we can't live without each other, Jug," Mike whispered, his hand squeezing Will’s shoulder through the soft olive knit. "We were being idiots. We were letting decades of domestic routine turn into an excuse to have these stupid, exhausting fights over nothing. Turns out, even in my fifties, I’m still a massive asshole."

From behind, Max let out a sharp, involuntary snort. "Why am I not surprised?" she muttered, though her eyes were shining.

Older Will leaned his forehead against Older Mike’s shoulder for a brief second, his voice thick with an overwhelming emotion when he looked back up at their son. "But the second you went missing... we went ballistic. We ran through the streets like madmen and your papa almost punched Dustin in the face when he told us,"

"Son-of-a-bitch." Dustin muttered under his breath.

"Looking at them, or us, at what we used to be, it reminded us of everything. We forgot how crazy we actually are for each other. We started taking the quiet years for granted, but we won't do that shit again."

"Never again."

The steady, neon-blue light of the lamps seemed to soften, casting a gentle hue over the worn wood paneling of the living room.

Young Mike slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes rimmed with red, the damp track of a tear catching the blue glow on his cheek. He risked a glance across the small expanse of the ragged carpet, his gaze searching through the quiet room until it landed on Will. At the exact same moment, Will was looking up, his shoulders dropping out of that protective, defensive hunch.

Their eyes met and the realization hit them both with the force of a physical wave. They were both crying. The silent boundaries they had built between them since the roller rink in California, the unsaid words, the careful distances, the terrifying fear of losing each other, simply disintegrated in that single look.

The love they had been trying so hard to hollow out and hide was pouring out of them now, plain as day, undeniable to anyone watching. Mike felt his ribs finally loosen, a deep, heavy breath filling his lungs for the first time in months. The crushing weight was gone. There was no longer any reason to hold back, no reason to protect a secret that had just been shouted into the room by a boy from another century, literally. Jug had handed them their own future on a silver platter, completely out in the light, without any prior warning.

Around them, the rest of the Party was thoroughly wrecked.

Lucas was using the sleeve of his yellow track jacket to aggressively wipe at his eyes, looking down at his sneakers and sniffling loudly to pretend he just had allergies. Dustin stood completely frozen beside him, a bizarre mixture of emotions twisting his face beneath his cap. He was visibly sniffling too, his throat working hard as he looked at the older versions of his best friends, his chest heaving with a massive sense of pride that his future self had conquered the laws of physics. His pride was bigger than the romantic fallout currently happening in front of him. El stood a step closer to the television, a brilliant, watery smile breaking across her face. She wiped a single stray tear from her cheek with her thumb, her heart swelling as she watched her two favorite people in the world look at each other without any sadness left in their eyes.

In the center of the room, the three-man huddle slowly loosened. Older Mike stood up to his full height, his long trench coat settling back against his frame. He wiped a hand across his face, clearing his throat as he looked over Jug’s shoulder toward the hallway door.

His eyes locked onto Max, who was standing right next to Lucas, her arms still crossed over her chest in that stubborn, guarded posture.

Without a word, Older Mike broke all rules of temporal protocol. He stepped over the edge of the coffee table, his large leather shoes thudding softly on the carpet as he crossed the room. Max didn't move, her blue eyes widening slightly beneath her red hair as Mike closed the distance between them.

Before she could utter a single sarcastic remark, Older Mike leaned down to her height and wrapped his long arms completely around her, pulling her into a brief, fiercely grateful hug. He held her tightly for just a second, his chin resting against the top of her red hair, his fingers bunching into the denim of her jacket.

"Thank you," Older Mike whispered into her hair, his voice rough and thick with a decades-old devotion that he usually kept buried behind their arguments. "For everything, Max. Thank you."

Max went entirely stiff for a microsecond, her breath catching in her throat as the weight of what she had done for them, what she would do for him and Will in the years to come, settled into her chest. She blinked back a sudden surge of hot tears, her fingers loosening and then her arms engulfed Mike back. Slowly, a sharp, wicked little smirk returned to her face. She patted his back twice with a stiff hand before pulling away, looking up into his aged face.

"Don't get sappy on me, Wheeler," Max countered, her voice carrying that familiar, sharp edge, though her eyes were shimmering under the blue lamps. "You're ruining your reputation."

Older Will met her gaze and smiled profoundly, like he'd seen this scene a thousand times before. His eyes filled with a pure kind of joy that differed from anything he'd ever had in his childhood.

Young Mike moved without thinking, his long, awkward legs taking two steps over the worn carpet until his shoulder brushed against Young Will’s again. They stood perfectly aligned now, the striped cotton of Mike’s sweater rubbing against the rough flannel of Will’s shirt. Together, they looked toward the center of the room, tracking the way their older selves held hands, their fingers locked together in total, undeniable reconciliation.

Will’s face burned a brilliant, deep crimson under the neon-blue lamps. His mind was completely short-circuiting, his thoughts racing back to every lonely night in the cabin, every hidden drawing and the agonizing certainty that he was broken, but the white bands on those older fingers didn't lie. He won. He actually got to have Mike.

Beside him, Mike was still tracking the gestures, but his jaw had completely relaxed. That familiar, stubborn, incredibly smug Wheeler smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was the look of a boy who had just been handed exactly what he wanted most in the world. The internal war he had been fighting since the day Will moved away was over.

Suddenly, a metallic, screeching static burst from the silver casing clipped to Jug’s belt. Older Dustin’s voice cut through the localized hum, sounding tiny, panicked, and heavily distorted by temporal feedback.

"Rift decay in one-twenty seconds! The loop is collapsing, Mike and Will! Get your asses back through the threshold, or you're stuck in '89 permanently! Move!"

The vertical tear of blue light in the center of the room began to stutter, angry sparks popping loudly as they scorched the edge of the coffee table.

Before his parents could pull him toward the portal, Jug broke away. He lunged across the carpet, throwing his arms around both Young Will and Young Mike at the same time, dragging them into a single, fierce, desperate embrace that smelled of the future. He squeezed them tight, holding on as if his very existence depended on anchoring the two boys together right there in the past.

"I love you both so much," Jug choked out, burying his face into the space between their teenage shoulders. He squeezed them with everything he had, his voice thick with a final, heavy plea. "Always stay in love. Seriously. It suits you two."

Young Will’s breath hitched. Tears spilled over his lashes as he pulled back just enough to frame Jug’s face with his small, trembling hands. He looked into the boy's green eyes that mirrored his own and leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right against Jug’s forehead, his tears dampening the boy’s hair.

Mike stepped in closer, his heavy hand landing firmly on Jug’s shoulder. He gave the leather a solid, grounding pat and then he caught Jug’s gaze and blinked both of his eyes slowly, a silent, absolute reassurance that he was going to fix things now. He wasn't going to be a damsel causing his own demise. He wanted Will before, too and now, for some reason, he wants Will like he needs air to breathe.

Jug pulled back toward the shimmering rift, turning around to wave frantically at the rest of the basement crew. "Bye, mom! Bye, dads! See you in the future, everyone!"

Lucas and El waved back, their faces soft with a mixture of awe and exhaustion, while Max just stood by the back wall, a slow, knowing wink flashing across her face that was immediately replaced by tears as she saw her son leaving.

Older Mike paused right at the edge of the glowing blue tear. He adjusted the collar of his wrinkled trench coat and looked back at his teenage self one last time. A small, knowing smirk touched his lips.

"Hey," Older Mike whispered, his raspy voice cutting through the electric hum. "Don't take another five years, alright? Shortcuts are allowed."

"Really-wh-who said that?" He asked, wide-eyed.

"I said that, Michael!" Older Dustin's voice erupted from the machine again. "Move it, you three! Please."

Young Mike gave a sharp, definitive nod, his chest expanding with a sudden, fierce confidence.

"Let them figure it out, Mike." Older Will chimed in on their conversation for the first time ever. "And you!" He pointed towards Young Will. "Stop letting mom cut your hair, no matter how much she insists!"

Young Will rolled his eyes and nodded slowly.

The next moment, Older Will reached out, his hand sliding back into Older Mike’s as they stepped into the blinding column of silver and blue. With their spare hands, they each took hold of one of Jug’s, locking the three of them into a single, unbreakable line. They moved forward together, the brilliant neon light swallowing the olive knit, the trench coat and the leather jacket all at once.

With a sharp, pressurized snap that sounded like a lightbulb popping in an empty room, the rift vanished.

The heavy, metallic hum died instantly. The neon-blue glare evaporated from the wood paneling and with a series of dull, rhythmic clicks, the regular yellow lamps of the Wheeler living room flickered back to life. The basement door stood slightly ajar at the top, the rich scent of pepperoni pizza still lingering in the cramped space. Everything was exactly where it had been a few hours ago, but as Mike and Will stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the quiet house, the world felt entirely rearranged.

The clock in the corner of the wall gave a dull, heavy chime, marking the late hour as the front door knocker rattled against the wood.

It was the second pizza delivery guy that someone prank-ordered, probably Jug, the car idling in the driveway with its headlights cutting through the front windows. If the party wasn't in such emotional shambles, the excitement of a second lunch would've been different. Lucas went upstairs to pay him, his movements slow and mechanical and when he brought the fresh boxes into the kitchen, he simply set them on the counter without opening them. 

The Party moved in a quiet, synchronized daze, the sheer emotional weight of the day pressing down on their shoulders. Dustin was quietly folding his math-ridden notepad into his jacket pocket, his usual loud chatter reduced to a low, contemplative murmur as he mumbled something to El about checking the garage and cables.

Max was already reaching for her yellow skateboard by the coat rack, her movements uncharacteristically subdued. They were all completely drained, their minds bruised from witnessing a future they weren't supposed to see yet. It was time to go home, to escape the Wheeler house and try to find sleep in their own familiar beds.

Nobody moved toward the food when they came upstairs. The rich, greasy scent of melted cheese just felt heavy now, almost suffocating after the electric ozone smell that had filled the house only minutes prior.

Will walked toward the wooden coat rack near the front door, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the linoleum. His heart was still hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached out to grab his oversized plaid jacket, but his fingers were shaking so noticeably that he dropped the sleeve on his first attempt.

He needed to get out of this house. He needed the quiet safety of the cabin to process the absolute insanity of what had just happened. His deepest, most terrifying secret, the hidden, aching love he had buried under the Squawk, wasn't a tragedy. It was his literal reality. He was going to marry Mike Wheeler. The thought made his head spin and his stomach flip with a terrifying, beautiful vertigo.

He reached for the jacket a second time, but before his fingers could close around the collar, a hand caught his wrist.

The grip was sudden, warm and entirely firm. Will froze, the heat of the skin sinking straight through his pulse point. He turned around slowly.

Mike was standing right behind him, his dark hair messy from where he’d been nervously running his hands through it all day. The smug, confident smile he had worn during the portal's closure was nowhere to be found. It was replaced by a raw, desperate sincerity that made him look almost fragile. His dark eyes were wide, fixed entirely on Will as if he were terrified that if he let go, the future they just saw would vanish like smoke.

Will blinked, his gaze dropping down to Mike’s long fingers wrapped securely around his wrist, then back up to meet Mike's eyes. "What?" he whispered, his voice thin and breathless.

"Stay over," Mike said softly. The words weren't a casual suggestion; his voice carried a heavy, stubborn determination that left absolutely no room for an argument. "Please?"

Will’s throat felt incredibly dry. He looked past Mike’s shoulder at Lucas and El, who were quietly slipping out the front door into the cool night air. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to stay, to collapse onto the basement couch and never leave Mike's side again, but the sheer speed of everything was terrifying. He didn't know if it was safe to acknowledge the massive shift between them so quickly. He doesn't even know their own timeline yet. 

Were they dating in college? Were they roommates when this all happened? Did they get together later in their lives, or did it happen sooner? Since when did Mike start liking boys? What if the discovery was too soon and now Mike is disgusted? Too many questions sat on Will's tongue, unable to cross the threshold.

"Mike," Will said gently, his fingers twisting into the fabric of his jacket sleeve. "We should probably... I think we should sleep on all of this for tonight. It was a lot. For everyone... and I know it was a really big shock for you, too."

Mike let out a short, breathless sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh of sheer disbelief and took a fraction of a step closer, completely closing the distance between them. The stiff, awkward tension that had been suffocating him since the moment Jug arrived finally snapped.

"No way," Mike countered, his grip on Will's wrist tightening just enough to emphasize his words. "No way, Will. We have way too much to talk about. I can't just go upstairs and sleep on it as if nothing happened. I can't do it, okay? I have a million things I need to say to you and I have a ton of questions, too." He paused, a sudden, familiar glint of a Wheeler interrogation flashing in his eyes. "Starting with the name 'Forsythe' because I sure as hell didn't name our son that."

The mention of the future name broke the lingering panic in the air. A small, watery smile fractured across Will’s face, the heavy awkwardness of the past years finally melting into something comfortable, something safe and deeply theirs. He looked at Mike’s stubborn, high-strung expression and let out a soft laugh.

"You're an idiot, Wheeler," Will whispered, his shoulders finally dropping as the tension left his body.

"Yeah," Mike smirked, that familiar, slightly smug tilt returning to his lips as he gave Will's wrist a gentle, decisive tug, guiding him away from the coat rack and back towards the stairs. "But I'm your idiot. Apparently, it's legally binding in the future, you know? You're stuck with me."

The front door clicked shut behind them, with Max flipping both of them off, sealing off the rest of the world and leaving only the quiet, rhythmic hum of the water pipes in the walls.

Mike didn't let go of Will’s wrist until they reached the edge of the room. When he finally released his grip, his hand lingered for a fraction of a second, his fingers brushing against the cuff of Will’s flannel shirt before dropping to his side. He turned his face to look at Will. His gaze held the exact same fierce, unyielding intensity that had driven him into the woods on a rainy November night in 1983.

To look for him, to find him, to bring him home.

For years, that intensity had been an unnamed storm in Mike’s chest. Like a terrifying, chaotic force he didn't know how to label without breaking the rules of the world they lived in, but tonight, the storm had finally settled. His feelings had a name now. His devotion had a physical place to go, an anchor that belonged entirely to them.

As Will scooted closer, his green eyes wide and heavy with an expectant silence, Mike’s gaze naturally drifted downward.

His eyes tracked the soft curve of Will’s lips, staying there for a few long, breathless seconds. The temptation was loud, vibrating through the small space between them like the neon lights they saw, but after a moment, Mike consciously pulled his gaze back up to meet Will's eyes. He decided against it. He didn't want to rush this sweet, sacred union. He didn't need to scramble for a desperate moment in the dark anymore; according to the rules of the universe, he had his entire life to kiss him. They had decades of mornings, folders full of drawings and a thousand quiet conversations ahead of them. No matter how desperately Mike wanted to kiss him, he would just settle on talking tonight. 

Right now, they had too much to say. Before Mike finally broke the lifelong oath of silence his own heart had strictly kept, he wanted to hear every word Will had ever buried in the dark. He wanted to earn the future they had just been promised.

A soft, genuine smile broke through the exhaustion on Mike’s face. For the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid of what was coming. He was simply ready to sit down, open his mouth and embrace the magnificent love the universe was finally bestowing upon him.